Pieces of Silver
by Wandering Child
Summary: The hidden King of Asgard is not quite so well hidden as he thinks, and SHIELD sends a woman with a desperate need for vengeance and a questionable bloodline as his would be assassin. [Post Avengers, TtDW]
1. Prologue: Delilah

******A/N: **NYU does not separate their PhD program in Linguistics into a PhD and a separate Masters , however, for the sake of storytelling, I have created the extra degree.

* * *

**Prologue**

_An undisclosed location, somewhere outside of Boston, Massachusetts._

Lara Sigyn had been sitting in the interrogation room for over an hour before there was a knock on the door.

"Seriously? It's your room, come on in." Her voice betrayed anxiety, but not fear. She'd dealt with the Central Intelligence Agency before.

There was certainly nothing frightening about the man who entered. Average height, average build, thinning brown hair, slim black suit - your boilerplate Ivy Leaguer, she assumed, recruited into the Agency to crunch numbers or ask questions. Glorified desk jobs. Just as she had had.

"Miss Sigyn," he said politely, warmly. "I apologize for the wait. I'm Agent Coulson."

Lara ran her hands through hair the color of coal, still woozy from having been pulled into the car from the street in front of her apartment so quickly.

"Why wouldn't you just call me? You have my contact information. Was the black car, spooks in glasses, and blindfold necessary? I have security clearance."

Something like confusion flashed in Coulson's eyes, but it was gone too quickly for her to be sure. The room was small, maybe ten by ten at most. White walls, florescent lighting, two chairs, metal table. Again, standard issue. Coulson took a seat across from her, opening the slim manila file that he held.

"You were born March 7th, 1984. You are twenty nine."

"Horrifying, I know." Her smile was dry. "But true."

"And you are currently a TA at Harvard University."

At that, Lara's smile vanished.

"Currently, yes. I was previously at NYU, but half of our department - desks, books - " Full stop. "Professors." Full stop. "And students - got incinerated in whatever the hell happened in New York last year. Harvard took half of us that were left, Yale took the other. Good publicity I suppose."

"I think you're being modest Miss Sigyn. Your undergraduate degree is from Yale. You were accepted into NYU's linguistics program immediately after you graduated."

"I went for two years and completed my Master's degree."

"You graduated from Yale at age twenty two, and had your Masters from NYU at twenty four. You didn't continue in the PhD program until 27. Tell me about the three years I'm missing."

"You know about the three years."

Something in Coulson's face made her uneasy.

"Tell me anyway."

Lara sighed. There was a pounding in her head that was only growing louder by the minute. She had finals to grade.

"The CIA recruited me after I had my Masters. They recruited a bunch of us - language specialists are valuable and not easy to come by. I got sent to Russia with something like a half dozen others."

"Did they teach you how to throw a punch over there?"

Suddenly, horribly, something clicked in Lara's brain, and the pounding began to overwhelm her.

"What do you mean, _they_?"

Coulson's voice remained quiet and steady. "I mean that I'm assuming that the Central Intelligence Agency taught a five and a half foot woman how to defend herself before she was sent off to -"

"No, no I get that. Why did you refer to the Agency in the third person?"

She saw realization dawn on him.

"Miss Sigyn, I'm not with the Central Intelligence Agency."

Pounding. Like she had never felt in her life. Furious, unrelenting, unforgiving. When she'd been pulled into the car earlier this afternoon, Lara hadn't been afraid – a normal reaction would have been terror, but terror had been held at bay by the fact that Lara thought that her former bosses wished to remain covert in the name of all that had transpired in the past year – especially since it had just happened again in Greenwich. Now, terror crashed against her in waves.

"Oh. God. Damn it."

"I'm with the Strategic Homeland Ini - "

"SHIELD." She finished before he could. "I've heard of you. The only Agency that could get my CIA file without being the CIA."

"Miss Sigyn, you are in a very unique position to assist us."

Lara could barely hear him over the sound of her heart. SHIELD. She only knew about them from second hand stories from back when she was in Russia, and after New York - oh God. New York. Before last year, when people had mentioned horror in New York, they'd meant 2001 - she'd been nothing but a child then, but she remembered the fear that had consumed her, how she'd thought her world was falling apart. Then last year she'd watched those monsters come from the sky and rip the city apart around her. That was when she had truly known what fear was.

"Listen. Please." She had begun to shake. "I don't know what you think I am, but I promise you, it is nothing. I was a linguistics researcher for the CIA, that's it. End of story. It was a job. They taught me how to elbow someone in the ribs, throw a punch, that's it. Mall parking lot defense 101. I wasn't a spy. Oh God, I had a desk job! The openly recruited on my campus, this wasn't some back alley _Alias_ bullshit!"

Coulson nodded. "I know you weren't a spy, Miss Sigyn. Your service in the CIA is about as exciting as someone's service at the DMV."

"Then what do you want from me?"

"Your brains. And your blood."

"Come the fuck again!?"

"And your rage." From the folder, the Agent named Coulson, who was now to Lara so much more than she had assumed, produced two photographs, one of a young woman, and one of a man. Lara winced as if she'd been slapped.

"Diana Golden, another linguistics PhD student, and I believe a very good friend of yours." Coulson touched the other picture. "Professor Jonathan Morgan. Both killed in the extra terrestrial attack on New York last year."

"You made your point," she hissed. "I'm angry, so what, a lot of people are?"

"In two months, a delegation of our doctors, scientists, and scholars are being sent to Asgard as part of a goodwill mission, arranged by their ambassador, Thor Odinson, to promote peace and cooperation between our realms. You will be a part of that delegation."

"Why?"

"You are one of the foremost scholars in this country in linguistics."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, but I'm still only half way to a PhD. I think there are a few people ahead of me on that list."

"You are the perfect cocktail Miss Sigyn, everything we need. First, your prior work with the CIA shows that you have your wits about you. As much as you protest that it was a desk job, it still requires discretion, a thick skin, and a sharp mind. You can be trusted. Next, your academic background is impressive, so when you are working with the Asgardians as part of the delegation, you will be able to speak to them on your field intelligently. I need an actual expert, someone whose cover can't be blown, because the cover is real. And finally, Miss Sigyn – Asgardian blood – you have it in you."

He said it so calmly, as if he had told her that she was right handed. Lara thought of her blue eyes and pale skin, and grew paler.

"Don't feel so special. Lots of people do. The Viking Age was full of consortium between Asgardians and humans, until Odin put a stop to it. Your family in particular has married relatively few times outside of Scandinavia, so the fact is that genetically it's still very much present in your bloodline."

Coulson folded his hands together, and his voice grew even gentler, as if to apologize before he began speaking. "Their King is in crisis, and in that crisis, we believe that he will feel trapped – unable to turn to another Asgardian, unwilling to turn to a human being – you will be a unique refuge to him in a sea of insanity. We need you to become close to him."

Lara laughed. Once, twice, three times – in horror or humor she did not know. "Ok, ok. You just politely asked me to sleep with their King. This is getting better every minute."

"Forgive me." Coulson's face looked like he meant it. "That was not my intention. I want him to take you into his confidence, so that he trusts himself to be alone with you, to tell you what he has been doing, what he has been planning. And then, Miss Sigyn, for your country and for humanity, we need you to eliminate him."

She stopped. She thought. She spoke.

"Agent Coulson, my former position, academic background, and apparently genetic information aside, let me tell you a little something about myself. I'm a twenty nine year old woman from Saratoga. I don't sleep well, I don't eat well. After New York I pop Xanax like Pez and, shit, after Greenwich too? I should probably be on a whole host of antidepressants. I also have zero fucking patience for most people and their bullshit. However 'perfect' I fit your bizarre profile, this is a bad fucking idea."

Lara shook her head. "Now, I'm getting something of a perfect gentleman vibe from you Coulson, so I will give you the benefit of the doubt that you are just the messenger of this plan, rather than its architect. However, what you just asked me to do, is, unfortunately, most easily accomplished by sleeping with someone."

She laughed again. "And then, the cherry on top of this insult is that you want me to kill him afterwards. The King of Asgard. You want to play Delilah to Samson, so, while I'm going to refuse this insane request anyway, you at least have to tell me, why?"

His answer rang against the metal table like a death knell.

"Because he is not their King."


	2. The King of Asgard

**"He that hath no cross deserves no crown." - Francis Quarles**

* * *

The King of Asgard was alone.

He was always alone.

By day he sat upon a throne behind a mask, concealed from all who would look upon him, ruling the world that should have been his by right under the guise of his now dead father.

The once-prince Loki ruled, but he ruled in chains.

And it galled him.

It had seemed like such a brilliant plan at first – by all accounts it had been. "Die" in battle saving Thor and assume his father's place – redemption, freedom, and his birthright gained all in one moment.

But freedom was elusive. After all, he had to rule as his father lest he be arrested and almost assuredly executed for Odin's death. Despite the tales of his exploits in Svartalfheim, the Asgardians still whispered his name with the taint of fear and shame – relief as well. Relief that he was "dead." Relief that the traitor Loki was no more. It made his blood boil, knowing that they spoke of him thusly, but even greater than his desire for revenge at their slights was his desire to rule.

And so to rule as king, he ruled as Odin. Every morning he awoke as Odin. Every evening he retired as Odin. Every person he spoke to, he spoke to as Odin. Every command that he made was as Odin. Every meal that he took among the Asgardians was as Odin. Every fake smile. Every forced laughed. As Odin.

He'd forgotten how much he'd once loved laughing – his tricks had been all in good fun, and he remembered, albeit dimly, how long ago his brother had laughed with him. Loki mercilessly squashed the memory. It was pointless, really, to remember such times, for he had allowed his past to be swallowed up in the great maw of his hatred, where he had willingly, joyfully left it to die.

At night, he retreated to his rooms for a few blessed hours of solitary freedom, the illusion of Odin fading from his body. Falling into bed, he'd scream himself horse into silken pillows so that he would not forget the sound of his own voice. He had not figured this into his plan: madness was never more than a footstep away from his door.

The bedroom was his sanctuary, the only refuge from the outside world. He tried at first to sleep in the King's Bedchamber, but found the idea of sleeping where his now dead mother once had repulsive. So he'd built another chamber – no one had found it strange. After all, half of Asgard was being rebuilt after the Dark Elves had attacked, and no one dared question the Mighty Odin, who seemed to have survived both the attack and his wife's death with preternatural strength. Of course, the real Odin was dead now, but only Loki knew to mourn….

It was not like the old king's room's had been, done in yards of golden silk and glowing light. Loki's new rooms were dark, the walls and furniture made from black ebony harvested from the Earth, with shelves of books and weapons reaching up three dozen feet to the dark, emerald colored silk that hung from the ceiling.

The bed was enormous, but he drew little comfort from it. Sleep was always elusive – when he dreamed, he dreamed of something like regret, or even worse, of nightmares. Sometimes he dreamed of the Chitauri, coming to exact their revenge for his failings, torturing him, peeling the skin from his body inch by inch until he begged for death. He'd wake up shaking like some pathetic weakling, wishing he'd actually died on that God-forsaken field in Svartalfheim rather than live through another nightmare. Still other dreams were crueler. In other dreams he'd been born to rule, and his family sat lovingly by his side - he had everything he'd ever dreamt of having. No, sleep was no good at all.

Madness; its flames were licking at his heels, and everyday the fire grew hotter.


End file.
